


A Smaller Surprise

by bobbiewickham



Series: Less Miserable [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5647123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantine goes to a party with Zéphine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Smaller Surprise

Fantine fussed with her hair, feeling rather nervous. The party was going to be strange, a gathering of people she did not know, at the apartment of one of Zéphine’s artist friends. Zéphine had asked them all to go. Dahlia declined, to Zéphine’s disappointment: Listolier had plans for them. Favourite, in a rare burst of kindness, offered to stay with Cosette instead of coming along to the party.

“I need some quiet,” Favourite said, “and it will be an excuse not to be with Blachevelle tonight. I’m sick of him and his dull, tiny apartment. He has no style.” She turned her disdainful gaze onto Fantine. “At least you have pretty things on your walls, and Cosette is a nice child.”

Favourite had watched Cosette before, so Fantine knew it would be all right, no matter how haughty Favourite was.

Zéphine tapped her foot impatiently at the door. Fantine picked Cosette up to give her one last kiss before handing her over to Favourite. “Does Fameuil know the man who’s hosting this party?” Fantine asked, shutting the door behind her.

“No,” Zéphine said, with a cool, amused look at Fantine. “Why should he? Fameuil isn’t an artist.” She tossed her silk scarf—a deep rose color, setting off her midnight hair—round her neck and sped up. Fantine scurried to keep up with her. The night was lovely, and she would have happily taken more time to walk, and to put off the scary party, but she told herself not to be a fool.

The apartment was small and filled with a strange, sweet-smelling smoke; there were silk-covered pillows strewn about the couches and on the floor; and the people were dressed so oddly. Not scandalously, at least not most of them, but their clothes were bohemian. Fantine stuck close to Zéphine, who seemed perfectly at home. “How did you get to know these people?” Fantine whispered.

Zéphine shrugged. “How does one get to know anyone? How did you get to know Tholomyès?”

Fantine smiled. She’d dodged him, but always tried to let him find her again. She’d never been so bold as to find him herself. “At the Panthéon,” she said. “He found me there.”

The smoke was going to her head in some strange way. She felt light-headed, almost dizzy, but it was a pleasant sort of feeling. “There won’t be dancing, I suppose,” she said.

“No.” Zéphine looked like she was going to laugh at Fantine, which made Fantine cross.

“Don’t be so superior. I haven’t been to any of these affairs, you know.”

“Oh, yes,” Zéphine said. “I know, and anyone who takes one look at you knows. But that’s all right,” she added kindly. “There’s always a first time. Here, let’s get something to drink.”

The host had provided wine, absinthe, and cassis. Zéphine pounced on the cassis and procured one for Fantine as well. Fantine took a delicate sip, and smiled. “There, see, you’re enjoying yourself already.” Zéphine looked smug.

Fantine looked around, taking another sip. “What do we do now?” She said this in a half-whisper. She felt foolish and at a loose end: if there was no dancing or dinner, then what did people do, at a party like this?

Zéphine rolled her eyes. “Come. We’ll sit down on that couch there—there seems to be space.” There was a very small space, and several people between them and the couch. But Zéphine slid between the others so fast and smooth, Fantine didn’t see how she did it, claimed the space, and then nudged the neighboring young man to move so there was room for Fantine, too. Fantine followed and sat next to Zéphine, feeling very slow and clumsy.

She stared at her hands while Zéphine talked about something called Ourika with the two young men occupying the rest of the couch. For want of anything else to do, she finished the cassis, which was deliciously sweet and rich and thick. She so seldom had anything sweet at all.

“Good evening,” said a male voice, and Fantine looked up to see an amber waistcoat, with Bahorel inside of it.

“Oh! It’s you!” Fantine smiled, and then frowned. Was it disloyal to Tholomyès, to find Bahorel amusing? But he was grinning, too, and there was something about his smile that made her want to smile back.

“I didn’t know you came to these parties.” Bahorel looked around with an air of deep, proprietary satisfaction. A young man stood in the center of the room and began to beat a drum, unlike any drum Fantine had seen before.

“I don’t,” said Fantine. “This is my first time. Zéphine brought me.” She gestured at Zéphine, still chattering away about Ourika. “I don’t even know what Ourika is.”

“A novel,” said Bahorel.

“Oh! Well, then, I couldn’t read it. I can read simple notes, but no more. I didn’t even know Zéphine could read.”

“Maybe she can’t,” Bahorel said, with a shrug. “Someone may have told her the plot, or read it to her. Hasn’t she spoken to you about it?”

“No,” Fantine said, slowly, watching Zéphine speak more animatedly than Fantine had ever seen her. “Never.”

The drum grew louder. Fantine winced. “Do you like—reading novels, then?”

“I do,” said Bahorel, “and poetry, too. That’s why these parties are my favorite. Full of people who love nothing more than to talk about art, in all its forms. I hadn’t seen your friend Zéphine here before, though.” He paused. “Does your other friend—you know who I mean—like to read?”

“Tholomyès? Oh—he does. Some things. I don’t understand what he says of them, though,” she added, shamefaced.

“Hmm,” said Bahorel.

Feeling vaguely like Tholomyès was being judged somehow, she rushed on to say, “He doesn’t mind! He’s very kind, he doesn’t mind my being so ignorant at all.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” said Bahorel, and Fantine’s face grew hot. Before she could say anything, Bahorel changed the subject. “How is—Cosette, is it?”

“Yes!” Fantine smiled. “Oh, she’s a darling. You saw her. She’s the sweetest child. She has a new trick now, of taking a spoon and hitting it against the table while she sings.”

“A budding soprano! What songs does she sing?”

“Oh, no real song, no real words—she’s just making noises, but there’s always a tune.”

“Ah, well,” said Bahorel, “no wonder you find her efforts more pleasing than this.” He gestured toward the drummer.

“Do _you_ like this?” Fantine said, unable to keep the impish tone from her voice. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would.

“Why, yes.” Bahorel’s eyes glinted, and he grinned again. “But then, I like noise.”

***

Two days later, when Fantine saw Zéphine next, Zéphine handed her a small box. “That man you were speaking to, at the party. Bahorel. I met him with some others from the party at a café, and he asked me to give you this.”

Fantine opened the box. In it was a wooden rattle, painted blue, and a note, short and simple enough for her to read, though with some difficulty: _A drum for the little singer._

“Does Tholomyès know him?” Zéphine’s voice was arch, her eyebrows raised.

Fantine didn’t look at her. “They met. Once.”

Zéphine’s eyebrows went further up. But all she said was a mild, “It’s a pretty toy.”

When Fantine went home and gave Cosette the rattle, Cosette spent two whole hours vigorously shaking it while singing nonsense words, until she finally fell asleep.


End file.
